


Sawyer in Dallas

by PoppyAlexander



Series: Boyfriend Material [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Consensual Non-Monogamy, Deleted Scenes, Flirting, M/M, Missing Scene, One Night Stands, Oral Sex, Rough Oral Sex, ethical non-monogamy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:07:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21611962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: Bonus/"deleted"/"missing" scene (One-Man Advantage): Sherlock hooks up on the road with his former teammate, Taylor Sawyer.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Original Male Character(s)
Series: Boyfriend Material [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/640538
Comments: 12
Kudos: 76





	Sawyer in Dallas

“Check out this loser!”

Sherlock turned from the bar at the sound of a familiar voice chirping him.

“What name is on your false ID, Sawyer? Surely you’re too young to be here,” Sherlock replied, even as his former Brawlers’ teammate—now a Dallas Tornado—Taylor Sawyer offered a strong handshake and pulled him in for a one-armed embrace.

“Naw, I’m legal,” Sawyer replied. “Let me buy you one. How the fuck are you, Holmesy?”

Sawyer stepped up to the bar and ordered two kamikaze shots, disregarding the open bottle of beer already in Sherlock’s hand.

The bar was the sort of pool hall/bowling alley/darts-and-video-golf place meant to appeal to well-off young nightclub-goers, a weeknight place to drink and mingle. Upscale finishes and cocktails with double-entendre titles were the signature motifs. It stood on one corner of a modern, mixed-use complex full of restaurants and shops, small overpriced apartments, and the hotel where Sherlock’s team was staying. He’d walked the extra five minutes from the hotel bar in order to avoid the company of anyone he knew, not figuring in a city so big, with less cookie-cutter offerings for nightlife, that he might run into one of the Tornadoes players. Not that he was irked by it. Taylor Sawyer had been an overgrown child just the prior season; the intervening months since Sherlock had last seen him had favoured him with a stronger jaw sporting several days’ growth of beard, a pair of tattoo sleeves, and a generally more solid build. Little Saws had quickly become a man.

“Let’s shoot some pool; I’m here with a couple of my buddies,” Sawyer suggested, once they’d downed the sweet-sour shots of liquor. His pair of friends were not, as Sherlock feared, Sawyer’s teammates, but rather college-aged, farmhand types he probably knew in high school. Sherlock went along, and the four claimed a table close to the bar, shot a round-robin style game; none of them were particularly expert, and Sawyer’s friends were clearly more interested in getting blind drunk, quickly, and sloppily attempting flirtation with passing women.

“It’s nice to see you’ve invested your signing bonus so carefully,” Sherlock commented once, while the farmers took turns at the table, wasting time arguing about geometry between each shot. Sawyer frowned quizzically and Sherlock brushed a fingertip down one of his forearms to indicate the copious tattoo work visible below the short sleeves of his shirt.

Sawyer laughed loudly, showing his teeth and tossing his head, feigned embarrassed humility as he defended, “I got a deal. Went to school with the guy.”

“Mm,” Sherlock hummed skeptically.

“You should get some,” Sawyer said, and grabbed Sherlock’s wrist, turned his hand up to expose the soft inside of his forearm. “Look at all this space you could fill.” His fingers brushing Sherlock’s bare skin tickled and lingered, then he released him.

“Not for me,” Sherlock replied, and he remembered once in a discussion with John about who in the league they might sleep with, given the chance, that Sherlock had asserted he thought _young Taylor Sawyer might go our way in an emergency_. “They suit you, though.”

Lowered eyes and another gentle head-toss from Sawyer. “Whatever. Thanks. Back up; my shot.”

Sherlock raised his hands in surrender and took a step backward as Sawyer leaned over the table, lining up a shot. He stood straight, adjusted the angle of his body, leaned in once more. The fit of his pale grey trousers across his backside was a sight Sherlock was happy to behold and when he moved forward to allow a pair of women to get around him on their way to the bar, Sawyer’s hip pressed against his own in a way that did not seem purely accidental. Sherlock licked his lips, and must have smirked a bit, as Sawyer stood up demanding, “What are you smiling about? I’m winning this round.”

“Just pleased to see you, Sawyer.”

“Oh, cool, then.” Sawyer winked at him, and smiled with dimples so nothing-other-than-cute that Sherlock felt affronted.

They finished their game and Sawyer’s friends begged their leave with indications toward a couple of young women with long hair and short skirts who were going to take them on to the evening’s next adventure. Sherlock shook their hands and said all the expected things but was glad to see them go.

“Now what?” Sawyer asked as they returned their cue sticks to a rack on the wall.

“You’ll be looking for a girl to buy a drink for, I imagine,” Sherlock prompted. “Take your pick of the eyes on you from every corner.” He gestured around the bar, not joking; Sawyer’s stature, physique, and movie-idol face were drawing the unsubtle attention of many giggling, tipsy women teetering in pencil-thin heels.

Sawyer waved a hand. “I have a girlfriend.”

Sherlock looked around them stagily.

“She’s in Tulsa, visiting her parents.”

Sherlock nodded, and though he believed it was probably true, arranged his expression to reflect smiling doubt.

“How’s Watson?”

“Very well.”

“Tell him I say hey.”

“I will.”

“You look good,” Sawyer said, and pressed fingertips against Sherlock’s chest, giving him a playful push. “Changed your workout?”

“Not much,” Sherlock replied. “You’ve changed yours.” He widened his eyes and looked Sawyer up and down. “Steroids will shrink your bollocks; be careful.”

“I’m not taking fucking steroids!” Sawyer laughed, and where many of their hockey-playing colleagues would have punched Sherlock on the arm, Sawyer instead hit his shoulder with the back of his hand. “I’m fucking working!”

“All right, all right,” Sherlock conceded. “Whatever the plan, it’s working for you. I’d barely have recognised you as the same child I played with last season.”

“Not a fucking child,” was his protest, but with the familiar dimpled smile, showing his teeth. “Let’s get a drink.” They moved toward the bar, and Sherlock did the math of batted lashes and shy dips of the chin, unnecessary physical touch, and less than the expected quantity of trash talk over the course of the previous ninety minutes. He felt secure in his previous position about which way Sawyer went, particularly with the mention of the conveniently absent girlfriend. Sawyer juggled his phone in one hand, feeling in his pocket for his billfold. As he drew it out, he caught Sherlock’s eye, and demanded, “Why do you look like that?”

“What do I look like?” Sherlock challenged, and he knew very well his own knowing smile but was having fun.

“I don’t know. Looking at me weird.”

Sherlock gave him a pointed look. “You’re flirting like a woman.”

A disingenuous brush-off, all lowered lashes and a smirky smile. “Naw’m not.”

“You _are_ ,” Sherlock insisted. “ _Absolutely_ you are. You’re a very flirty girl, Sawyer.” Sherlock slow-motion shook one extended index finger at him; _naughty naughty_.

“Whatever.” Sawyer turned to the bartender, not missing the chance to step in beside Sherlock, his arm brushing Sherlock’s as he set an elbow on the bar and signaled the bartender for _Two more over here_. When Sherlock pulled out his money clip with its pinched, folded cash, Sawyer pushed his wrist with less-than-gentle fingers. “Put it away, Holmes. My round.”

Sherlock didn’t protest beyond a questioning adjustment of his eyebrows. “Put it _away_ ,” Sawyer repeated, with whingey music in it that Sherlock felt only served to prove his point.

The bartender set down two shots and Sawyer favoured her with a one-hundred percent gratuity. Sherlock turned halfway around on his stool, facing Sawyer, and they took up their glasses, saluted each other with them, then downed the lemon-and-vodka shots. Sherlock’s lips puckered, and the alcohol warmed and tightened his throat on the way down.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.” The adjustment of posture required to return his own empty glass to the bar top left Sawyer standing more or less between Sherlock’s open knees. “Shoot another game?” he asked, head tilting toward the pool tables. The outside of his thigh pressed against the inside of Sherlock’s, not intensely, not for long.

Sherlock grinned. “I don’t think so.”

“What, then?”

“You know.”

“Naw.”

“Course you know.” Sherlock reveled in the game, Sawyer beckoning and then pushing back, Sherlock eagerly advancing each time, but just as easily retreating—requiring Sawyer to renew the invitation. Sawyer, for his part, could barely keep his tongue inside his mouth—its tip flicking out to moisten lips already shining—and he ducked his chin, lowered his eyes, playing bashful. Or perhaps not playing. Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure which explanation he preferred; each had its own particular charms.

Sawyer lay one hand flat on the bar, his thumb brushing ticklingly against the hair of Sherlock’s forearm. He offered an alternative to a round of pool. “Another shot?”

Sherlock only looked at him, amused, smiling with teeth, and raised his eyebrows to indicate expectation that Sawyer might suggest a third option.

Again playing (or not playing) coy, Sawyer looked up and away, eyes lightly rolling, and insisted, “You say.”

Sherlock was acutely aware Sawyer was closer to him than he might be if he were less inebriated and more self-conscious, and so nudged Sawyer’s shin with the toe of one shoe, an attempt to remind him of his public appearance. Sawyer barely moved.

“What shall I say?” Sherlock asked.

Sawyer put a hand on the back of his shoulder, leaned in close to Sherlock’s ear.

“You want to take me out of here.”

“Why would I?”

“So you can suck my dick?” Sawyer stepped back and looked away to signal the bartender for another drink.

Sherlock was practically salivating, and hearing Sawyer’s hesitating request sent a staticky shock through him. “There. Not so hard,” Sherlock grinned.

“Yeah, no, speak for yourself,” Sawyer contradicted, smiling against the back of his own wrist as he dried his lips so he could wet them again with a flash of pink tongue. Sherlock tossed cash on the bar, rose to stand, and started to leave. Sawyer downed his shot even as he followed, left the empty glass abandoned on the edge of a pool table.

In the hotel elevator, Sawyer leaned back against a mirrored wall, with his hands on Sherlock’s wrists as Sherlock worked open the first few buttons on his shirt, revealing more of the ostentatious tattoos and what was truly one of the most insane bodies Sherlock had ever seen. The priorities of youth: Sawyer was well-known for lifting his jersey during breaks in play—ostensibly to wipe sweat from his face and neck—making frequent display of ribbed-for-pleasure abdominal muscles. Sherlock ducked to rub his lips and tongue-tip over the flat, hard curves of a pectoral muscle and Sawyer let go a gratifying gasp. His hand rose to the back of Sherlock’s neck as if to pull Sherlock closer, but it didn’t.

Sherlock regained his full height and demanded, “You’re not a _virgin_ , Sawyer.”

A scoff and a toss of the head. “Fuck, no.”

“In any sense,” Sherlock further prompted.

A pause, and Sawyer swallowed hard while his hand slid at a rough slant along the front placket of Sherlock’s trousers, down and then up, easily finding his thickened cock. Still, he had not answered. There was a loud metallic ping, then the elevator doors slid open and they broke apart, trailing each other down the corridor as Sherlock drew the key card from his money clip.

Once inside the suite, Sherlock meant to take the reticent youth by the hand, perhaps play more of the cat-and-mouse game they’d been at all night, coaxing him into the bedroom with promises of sweetness—Sherlock would go along if that was the story Sawyer wanted to tell himself in the morning—but when he turned around there was Sawyer’s belief-testing torso as he yanked his shirt up and off.

“Who you rooming with?” Sawyer asked, and his steady forward motion toward the open door of the bedroom forced Sherlock backwards through it. He grabbed the dangling end of the shirt in Sawyer’s hand and pulled, encouraging. Sawyer’s other hand was on his belt buckle, fingers fumbling.

“Alex George, but forget him.”

“No worries,” Sawyer shrugged, and kicked the bedroom door shut behind them. He dropped everything at once: the tails of his shirt, thumbs hooked into the waist of his trousers to shove them down, toeing off his slip-on sneakers. He dropped hard onto the little loveseat, shoved aside a small tangle of Sherlock’s dirty laundry with one hand while he used the other and his bare feet to rid himself of his trousers.

Sherlock took in the view as he stripped out of his own clothes: Sawyer was lean muscle, naked but for two sleeves of tattoos and then some, and an almost-gaudy platinum chain around his neck. He leaned back with parted knees, adjusted his mostly-erect prick with one hand. He watched Sherlock undressing, made a show of licking his first two fingers, then flicked them over one nipple, pinched and tugged it, sucked a sharp breath.

“Not a virgin, then,” Sherlock half-joked, and Sawyer smirked and flushed.

“I’ve jacked off thinking about you,” was his non sequitur response.

Sherlock grinned wickedly. “Hot.”

Sawyer raised one long foot and pushed the low cocktail table away from him, making room on the floor. Sherlock took a knee, then both, and slid his hands up the steely length of Sawyer’s thighs, from knees to hips. In perfect harmony with the rest of his meticulously attended-to body, close-trimmed dark hair framed the base of Sawyer’s veiny, plump-headed cock; his bollocks were lightly furred, but his inner thighs were artificially bare, and thought he could not see from his current vantage point, Sherlock imagined his cleft was, as well. Anyone with as many tattoos as Sawyer had sat through would have the pain tolerance—and obviously he possessed all the required vanity—to endure the sort of warm-wax torture Sherlock found mostly unnecessary but also intriguing.

He caught Sawyer’s eye and prompted, “Tell me more about what you imagined of me,” then dropped his head to begin teasing the smooth inner thighs with licks and kisses and mildly ferocious nips of his teeth.

“I’d see your ass in the locker room and I wanted to lick it all over.”

Sherlock cursed, then brushed closed lips lightly across the surface of Sawyer’s bollocks.

Sawyer let out a quick whimper and his hips jutted up. “Thought about straddling you. Your hands all over me while I jacked both our cocks.” He ran his own hand over his belly, up his torso to curve around his pectoral. Sherlock took Sawyer’s straining prick in hand, sliding light and smooth up the length to learn the topography of veins beneath silky-thin skin. He wet his lips, mouth already filling with saliva, and nudged Sawyer’s thighs a little wider. With charming disbelief in his breathless voice, Sawyer muttered, “Jeezus. . .are you gonna _blow_ me, Holmesy?”

Sherlock let go a long, affirmative hum even as he pressed his lips tight around the crown of Sawyer’s prick, settled his tongue, and slid as far down the shaft as he could comfortably go, then a bit more. Sawyer whined a curse and clutched at his own thighs.

“Unreal.”

Sherlock carried on with tight-lipped, open-throated sucks and swallows, discovering a pace that drew noisy, gasping huffs of breath from Sawyer. He brought one hand to the quivering surface of the taut, muscular abdomen, because it was arousing to feel it, but also—perhaps moreso—because he knew it would flatter Sawyer to have his hard-won physique appreciated. Sherlock was used to athletic bodies—he had one himself—but even he must admit young Sawyer’s was a practically unearthly specimen. The spoils of youthful metabolism, creating the evidence of potentially toxic narcissism.

Once Sawyer had added unself-conscious moaning to each expelled breath, Sherlock switched from deep-throating to exploratory worship with lips and tongue. He dug into the slit at the tip of Sawyer’s cock with his tongue-tip, swirled wetly around the crown, kissed and licked his way up and down the hot length. He stroked with one hand while the other tickled the tightening skin of Sawyer’s sack, and Sherlock’s tongue mapped the size and location of each of his balls. He sucked at the skin, and Sawyer sucked his teeth. Sherlock opened his mouth to envelop the head of his cock, and Sawyer opened his mouth to groan.

Sherlock kept at it until his jaw was aching, his throat was sore, his knees were burning from the carpet scraping beneath them. It was delicious in every sense. His own cock strained and leaked, jutting out hard and needy, occasionally brushing his belly as he shifted and bent, finding all the angles.

“Fucking amazing,” Sawyer grunted, and gently pushed at Sherlock’s jaw with one hand. “Let me do you. Before I come. I want to suck you.”

There was no need to tell Sherlock twice, though he did carry on for a few more wet pulls, just to prove he wouldn’t take coaching from a punk kid barely out of his rookie year. Sawyer made desperate noises, and curled his torso forward to reach Sherlock’s back, stroking down over his shoulder blades with the flats of his hands.

“You feel good. Let me suck your cock.”

In a moment, Sherlock was standing with feet planted apart to keep him steady, and once Sawyer had caught his prick and guided it to his lips, he grasped Sherlock’s buttocks in both hands and began to pull him in rhythm, fucking his own mouth with Sherlock’s reddened, ready prick. Sawyer was after all no novice—that much was clear—and Sherlock watched eagerly as he did everything he could to choke himself with Sherlock’s cock, drawing him deep, making himself gag. Reflexive tears quickly gathered and ran, and Sherlock groaned appreciation for it. A tentative hand in Sawyer’s brown hair earned an enthusiastic hum-and-groan so Sherlock dug in, curling his fingers to get a bit of a grip. His other hand curled around Sawyer’s jaw, both following and guiding as the hands on his arse urged him to rock his hips hard, fucking into Sawyer’s mouth, making him struggle to keep up.

Sherlock shut his eyes and let his head roll on his neck, a shiver running through his shoulders and into his chest, as he imagined himself in Sawyer’s place, weeping with a wide-open mouth, being used and taking it, a hand in his hair pulling and holding him down.

“I’m _right_ there,” he warned, and Sawyer pulled back just enough to nod. In his peripheral vision, Sherlock saw he’d lowered one tattooed arm, shoulder rolling as he stroked himself in quick, hard rhythm.

Sherlock came in and on his mouth, his whiskered chin and cheeks, was satisfied to see his cum leave sticky, near-clear tracks across the handsome face. Sawyer’s hazel-green eyes were red at the rims, still wet with choking tears. Sherlock steadied himself with a hand on Sawyer’s shoulder, panting himself through shuddering aftershocks of orgasm as Sawyer finished himself by hand. As he came he nuzzled against Sherlock’s hip, kissing his saliva and Sherlock’s cum onto the skin there.

They caught their breath, Sawyer dirty-grinning, all but congratulating them.

“That was _unreal_ ,” he panted. “So fucking good.”

Sherlock smirked and looked around for Sawyer’s clothes. “Agreed,” he said. He balled up Sawyer’s trousers and tossed them onto his lap. He went to the en suite and filled a glass with cold tap water, drank it greedily despite the fact it tasted faintly of bleach. He downed a second glass, refilled it and carried it out to Sawyer, who accepted it with a grateful, bashful grin. He’d wiped his face and got his trousers most of the way on, pulled into place but unfastened. His pubic hair glistened wetly between the metal teeth of the zip.

“You don’t want me to stay?” Sawyer asked, and the girlish tease had returned to his voice. He sounded as if he knew the answer and was only jesting, but Sherlock felt it best to remove all doubt.

“No.”

Sawyer huffed a small laugh. Sherlock drew out his tracksuit bottoms from beneath the bed pillow and stepped into them.

“And this won’t happen again,” he added. “One and done. It’s my inviolate rule.”

“Oh, really? You violated it with Watson, sounds like.”

Sherlock wanted a cigarette. He started to yawn but his jaw protested so he bit it off.

“Unrelated, completely different, and no one’s business but my own,” he said crisply.

“Too bad,” Sawyer said with a shrug, and reached to the floor for his shirt. He complained, “I can’t get my girl to peg me.”

Sherlock mugged a pout. “How sad for you.”

“Anyway, if your rule ever changes, you know how to get in touch with me.”

Sherlock nodded a quick, “M-hm.” He watched the rapid, disheartening disappearance of Sawyer’s naked body as he dressed it.

“Hug it out, at least?” Sawyer ventured, palms turned upward in surrender, once he was fully reassembled.

“Of course,” Sherlock allowed, and they embraced, chest to chest, for long moments. Sawyer kissed him on the cheek and released him.

Without being asked, and not even sure that it mattered much to Sawyer one way or another (though Sherlock thought it probably should), Sherlock was first out of the bedroom to assure that Alex George was not there to see a freshly-fucked, young Taylor Sawyer emerging from openly-gay Sherlock Holmes’s hotel bedroom. The coast clear, Sherlock walked Sawyer to the door and they exchanged another, briefer, less intimate embrace before Sawyer left. He showed his dimples and winked as he went; Sherlock felt a weird twist of delight at all of it.

Back on his bed with an unlit cigarette held in the corner of his mouth, Sherlock aimed the remote at the television and started stepping through the channels. He took up his phone from the bedside table and texted John.

_Remember I once said I thought Taylor Sawyer might go our way?_


End file.
